March marks the first anniversary of Real Life with Bipolar Disorder. When I started writing this blog, I never thought for a moment that I’d still be writing it a year later. I’ve covered so many topics—from weight gain to sleep issues, from self-harm to self-medicating—and so much in between. I’ve seen 40 blogs hit this page in the year that has passed. That’s about 39 more than I planned—not a bad first report card. I don’t know if it’s something to be happy about or not—that is, the fact that there is a need for this blog—the fact that bipolar disorder actually exists. But it does, and there definitely is the need. So many people are searching for information and support. I’m happy to be able to provide that, at least in some way. And I’m happy for all the new people I’ve met along the way. There are so many wonderful bloggers out there. Some new ones, and some that have been doing this a lot longer than me. I learn from other bloggers every day. And for that I’m happy. And I’m happy for my current health. I’m in a state of recovery or remission—though those terms are controversial in the bipolar world—I certainly am in the best place I’ve been since being diagnosed in 2005. Ten years ago! It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. I’ve been through so much since that time. I’ve been manic, I’ve been depressed, and I’ve even lived through a mixed episode. So, I suppose I should be happy for the state that finds me now. The state that has me up and dressed most days, out of the house doing things, and actually being productive most of the time. I’m happy for my readers and for all the support and encouragement along the way. I’m always happy to receive your comments, emails, tweets, likes and shares. Please keep them coming, for some days they really keep me going. So, I guess then, it is really full of “happy.” So, Happy Anniversary to me! PS/ Today is World Bipolar Day—a day to raise awareness and stomp out stigma.

I guess it depends who you’re talking to to determine what you say. If you’re explaining bipolar disorder to your neighbour who has somehow found out, that would be a lot different that explaining it to your best friend or close family member. If I were explaining bipolar disorder to my neighbour – which actually I wouldn’t since I have lousy neighbours – but say it was an acquaintance, I would keep it simple. Just the basic facts. I would probably say something like, bipolar disorder is a condition of the brain that effects your mood. Now, if I were explaining it to my best friend or a close family member, I would definitely add more detail. I would explain about the neurotransmitters (chemicals) in the brain that don’t fire correctly or are at a deficit. And that these transmitters are responsible for controlling mood, feelings and behaviour. I would also explain that it’s a life-long, chronic, progressive disease and that it requires medication and therapy to control. I would explain about the mania – oh the mania – the euphoric highs and what they look like, but also, sometimes the dysphoria and the anger and aggression that goes with that. Then, of course, are the lows – the deep, dark depressions that can be all-consuming. You would also have to explain that medication doesn’t always work. That it can take years to find the right blend, or “cocktail” of meds that work particularly for you. And then, that changes can occur in your brain that can stop your cocktail from working. And most importantly, though there are triggers (and you should explain your particular ones), sometimes these changes occur for no reason. And that you can’t control the triggers or the changes. I think that’s an important part for people to understand. People with bipolar disorder absolutely cannot control the changes in their brain chemistry. However, you should explain that this condition can be managed. It can be managed by self-care – things like proper sleep, routine, nutrition, exercise (see my blog on self-care) – knowing your triggers and avoiding them, seeing your therapist and psychiatrist and remaining med-compliant. But most importantly the person needs to know that it’s not your fault. That you didn’t ask for this disease. And that they can help (see my blog on helping someone with bipolar). They can help in so many ways, but particularly in understanding the illness. Have them read a book on the subject or direct them to particular websites. Knowledge of bipolar disorder is paramount in understanding and caring for someone with it. If nothing else, I would encourage (or plead) for them to read about bipolar, for that is where the real understanding will come from.

It was Saturday morning when I got the call. My husband handed me the phone. I knew what was wrong even before I took the phone. My Gramma—almost 96 years old—was hemorrhaging. Her frail body wouldn’t be able to withstand the blood loss. She was dying. My Mom and I each quickly packed a bag and headed on the highway up north to Barrie—about two hours from home. It’s so hard to remember what happened when. I know that my Gramma was not in her room. She had been moved to palliative care. That in itself was stunning. The week and a half or so that followed seems a blur. People came and people went. Gramma was blessed with a large family and extended family. My sister travelled from Ottawa and met us in Barrie. There, with my Mom and two Aunts, the five of us kept vigil by her bedside. We made sure Gramma was never alone. Every time she opened her eyes—no matter how brief—she was met with a smiling face and a happy greeting. There were times when she was able to communicate. She strained to recognize us but we each had moments of “I love you.” They were special. Soon it became evident that she was agitated and uncomfortable. That’s when the morphine started. That’s when the decline really began. Eventually she became unresponsive and the decline increased. I am grateful to have had all those special moments and days with my Gramma before she died. It was an experience like none other. I was also so fortunate to have had my Gramma for 50 years—not everyone is so lucky. Before Gramma died I had to leave her bedside. My son was preparing to leave the country, cross the ocean and begin working as a volunteer at the International Scout Centre in Switzerland. I had to be there for him. It was a truly difficult situation which had me meltdown more than once. The act of leaving my Gramma was horrendous. But I had no choice. My son needed me. My Dad drove me home. There I could focus on Nicolas and helping him prepare for his grand adventure. He was excited and I was excited for him. More so, though, I was anxious. My anxiety had steadily increased with my visit at Gramma’s, then leaving her, and now preparing to lose my son as well—albeit just for four months. It was becoming more than I could bear. The scene at the airport was sad. Everyone cried. I was missing Nic already. Where had the time gone? He is 21 now and very much his own person. But still my first born, and still my little boy. The separation anxiety is painful. I have pictures and notes to look forward to. He has already texted a few times and posted beautiful pictures of the Alps. It’s almost been a week. I miss him so much. The next morning my Dad picked me up to head back up north. I was hoping my Gramma had the strength to hold on until we got there. The truth is she didn’t. We arrived a few hours too late. She was peaceful in her bed, just as I had left her. Again I cried so hard. My poor cheeks were dry from wiping tears away. The next couple of days were full of funeral plans and passing time. It was so somber. Then came the funeral—a celebration of life—Gramma’s wonderful life. She looked beautiful and at peace as she rested in her final bed of satin. She wore a gorgeous royal blue blouse that I picked out. That made me feel good. And then, in the end, I was fortunate enough to be one of the pall bearers—an incredible experience itself. Putting Gramma in the hearse was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. So here I am now, almost two weeks later, numb. Numb from pain, sorrow, and physical and emotional exhaustion. Life will carry on, but it will never be the same.